


gunpowder and lead

by bucksnatalia



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics)
Genre: 1872, Battleworld (Marvel), F/M, Marvel's 1872, Wild West AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-22 23:23:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4854566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bucksnatalia/pseuds/bucksnatalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You should know: Bucky and I didn't meet in church. We were both working. He on his side of the law... and me on mine." </p>
<p>When Mayor Fisk orders the capture and execution of the mysterious Black Widow, Timely's young deputy takes the mission. Little did he know that the Black Widow is part of something much bigger than his little desert town, and he's about to get sucked right into the middle of it. On the run from the so-called Red Room, Mayor Fisk's murderous henchmen, and even the law, Bucky Barnes and Natasha Romanoff have to turn to each other, and some friends, to unfurl the biggest conspiracy this desert's ever seen. </p>
<p>Based on Marvel's 1872, because who doesn't love a good western love story?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one.

A gentle breeze blows in through the open window, carrying with it the songful voices of the drunks drowning away another night in the saloon across the road. With a look of disdain, a redheaded woman crosses the floor to pull the window shut, muffling the sounds. She wears trousers like a man’s, a collared shirt and a jacket, with her flaming locks pulled atop her head in an intricate bun.

With the window shut, she pulls the curtains over the glass to block her from the view of anyone on the street below. The bed is littered in papers – handwritten letters detailing her assignment, sketches and photographs of her targets, directions to follow closely in the event she gets caught.

She won’t. She never does.

Her hat sits on the corner of the bed, and as she makes her way back over with silent steps, she scoops it up into her hand and settles it on her head in a single graceful motion. There are knives tucked up her sleeves and in her boots, and in sheaths at her belt. She has no gun – too loud, too conspicuous. For this mission, she doesn’t need one.

She’s found other ways to be effective.

Taking a single sketch into her hand – her final target – blue eyes scan over the finest details, memorizing the face, locking it into her mind.

Folding it in half, she tucks it into the pocket of her jacket, fingertips brushing the handle of yet another blade she’d hidden there. Perfectly disguised, she shuts off the single kerosene lamp, casting the room into darkness as she steps out into the hall.

* * *

 

Across town, in Timely’s tiny jail, the newly appointed Sheriff Steve Rogers sits at his desk, confusion and concern etched into his features. Wanted posters, reports, and articles are scattered across the desktop in disarray. In his hand is a particular poster that’s had his attention since he walked in that morning – not because of the crimes committed, or the reward offered, but because it was one of Mayor Fisk’s _lackeys_ who had tossed the poster in Steve’s direction the moment he’d stepped in the door.

There's a loud bang as the front door is kicked in and slams back against the wall, snapping Steve out of his thoughts, and he looks up from the poster to see his young deputy dragging in a drunk from the street.

“What’s this?” Steve demands, brow furrowing at the sight of the man – highly intoxicated, having difficulty keeping his eyes open or even _moving_ by himself, with vomit stains down the front of his shirt and the happiest grin to ever be displayed stretched across his crooked lips.

“Man was harassin' one of the dancers at the saloon,” replies the deputy with a look of disgust. James “Bucky” Barnes is many things, but tolerant is not always one of them.

“I’m in – hic! – love. I’m in love,” drawls the drunk, to which Bucky responds by shoving him into a cell and closing the door. The lock clicks, the drunk hiccups again, and proceeds to burst into a fit of intoxicated giggles.

“That a wedding ring on his finger?” Steve asks dryly, glancing between the giggling man and Bucky.

“Yessir.”

“I’m in love!” cries the drunk, leaning against the bars of the cell and reaching his arm through, attempting to grab at the deputy’s shirt. “I’m in love – hic! – with that dancing girl! I’m in love!”

With a disgusted sneer, Bucky pushes his hand away again, causing the unbalanced man to consequently fall backward with a hard _thud_. “Shut the hell up.”

“Buck, come here for a second.”

“Aw, _c’mon_ Steve, hell’s not _that_ bad a word –”

“Not that. I need you to look at something.”

Sensing the seriousness, Bucky’s brow furrows, and he moves around the desk to lean over his boss’s – and _friend’s_ – shoulder. In Steve’s hand is a wanted poster, a hand-drawn sketch of a young woman who looks to be about Bucky’s age. Her pretty face is framed by curls, and beneath her picture is the standard for any wanted poster – a set reward of $5000 for her capture, dead or alive. But there’s no name listed, only an alias. “The Black Widow, huh?”

“That’s what it says.”

“Credited with at least a dozen murders in the last six months.”

“Not just murders,” Steve says, pushing some of the papers on his desk aside to point to a particular news article, the only one he’d managed to find on her. “Assassinations. Each of her victims was someone important – businessmen, a priest, a politician –”

“Any connections?” Bucky asks curiously, examining the picture with interest.

“Not that I can tell,” Steve replies uncertainly, leaning back into his chair with a frown. “There’s hardly anything on her. It’s not like most other criminals. It looks like all of her crimes have been covered up, somehow. They're just starting to surface now.”

“Huh. Weird,” Bucky huffs, moving as if to read the article, when a loud banging on the front door catches both the sheriff’s and his deputy’s attention. Straightening up, he keeps the poster in his hand as he traces his steps back around the desk towards the door. 

“Who’s the lady?” slurs the drunk from his cell, leaning against the bars with his eyes following her picture.

“None of your business,” Bucky replies shortly, not even offering the cell a glance as he passes.

“She your – hic! – girlfriend?”

The deputy lets out a bark of laughter as he reaches for the handle. “Funny.”

He’s barely opened the door an inch before it’s forced from the other side, nearly knocking Bucky over in the process. At the doorstep stands a large man with a cane, towering a good ten inches above the young deputy, broad-shouldered and wide around the belly.

Bucky’s only ever seen pictures, and his brown eyes widen in surprise. “Mayor Fisk.”

“You must be the new deputy I’ve heard so much about!” Fisk says joyfully with a bright smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He extends his hand, not waiting for Bucky to take it and instead snatching his up and giving it a hearty shake. “Good to meet you, son.”

“Uh… the pleasure’s mine, sir,” Bucky replies, confusion crossing his expression. “What brings you all the way –?”

“If it’s about the _Black Widow_ , one of your men already came by this mornin',” Steve calls from his desk, standing up. He crosses his arms over his chest, clearly struggling to refrain from scowling.

“I’m well aware of that, Sheriff,” Fisk says, his eyes narrowing. Tossing Bucky’s hand aside, he marches in, cane making light thudding sounds as it hits the wooden floor. “But I’m worried he didn’t quite get the message across.”

Steve looks uninterested – more annoyed than anything. “And why’s that?”

“Well, it _is_ nearly sundown,” Fisk explains, stopping in front of Steve’s desk and looking down at him with the same falsely joyous grin he’d shown Bucky. “And from the looks of it, you haven’t made any attempts to track her down.”

Behind them, the door creaks loudly as Bucky closes it again. “If you know something, by all means, tell us, Mister Mayor.”

“I looked through old newspapers, Fisk,” Steve tells him, taking the newspaper article he’d found off his desk and holding it out for the mayor to see. “This is all I could find on her. It’d be a helluva lot easier to find someone if there was any information on them, but this is all I have. Unless you’ve got something for me now, you’re gonna have to settle with the pace we’re at.”

“As a matter of fact, I _do_ know something.” Straightening his posture, a superior smirk crosses over his cheeks, and he taps his fingers on the handle of his cane in delight. “I believe I may know where she is.”

Dropping the newspaper, Steve gestures for Fisk to continue. “Do share.”

“One of my men reported seeing a redheaded woman checking into the inn across from the saloon,” Fisk explains proudly, “Swore they'd never seen her before. Said she was traveling by herself, and didn't talk to a single soul - aside from the concierge, of course. My bet? This is our Black Widow.”

“And your man didn’t think to report this to us because?” Bucky asks expectantly, stepping around Fisk and the desk to stand beside Steve. He crosses his arms over his chest, unknowingly mimicking Steve’s posture – even his incredulous expression.

“Because,” the Mayor replies in a voice far too sweet to be genuine, “My men report to _me_.”

The Sheriff and his deputy share a look, before Bucky turns to pull a coat off of a hook behind the desk, and Steve returns his attention to the Mayor. “Anything else you’d like to share with us, then, Mister Mayor?”

“One final thing,” says Fisk, and he waits for Bucky to turn back around to continue. “You’ll want to listen well here, boy. This woman, the Black Widow – she’s _highly_ dangerous. Just look at her record! You find her, it’s in your best interest to kill on sight.”

Bucky scoffs – and then attempts, and _fails_ , to cover it up with a cough.

Steve’s eyes only narrow. “She causes trouble, she’ll get what’s comin’ to her. Otherwise, she gets a fair trial. You know the law, Fisk.”

“I’m simply looking out for the safety of the good people of Timely!” Fisk insists defensively, and if he weren’t the Mayor, both Steve and Bucky would be rolling their eyes. “She’s a menace - a danger to society! She has to be put down.”

“She’s got the right to a fair trial, just like the rest of us,” Steve counters easily, an edge in his voice.

The Mayor’s eye twitches, and he looks ready to pounce, but the moment is interrupted by the drunk in his cell, calling out to Bucky once again as he passes by, pulling on his coat and tucking the wanted poster into his pocket. “You goin’ to see your lady-friend?”

“She’s not –” Bucky begins, but cuts himself off, deciding it’s not worth the argument. As he steps up to the door, he checks his belt, making sure his weapons are secured.

The drunk giggles, shooting the deputy a knowing look - though his eyes are partially crossed. “ _Sure_ she’s not. But love – hic! – love always finds a way.”

Resolving to pay him no further attention, Bucky turns back to Fisk and Steve – both regarding the drunk with looks of disdain – and clears his throat. “I’ll track her down, sir.”

“She really is quite dangerous, I warn you,” Fisk insists, not bothering to turn more than his head over his shoulder. “Perhaps it’s wiser for the Sheriff himself to take this case –”

“The deputy is my protégé,” Steve interrupts, deciding the conversation has come to its close and seating himself back into his desk chair. “I’m not concerned.”

“Nor am I,” Bucky adds, lip curling up in an irritated scowl. “I can handle it.” Turning to Steve, he adds, “I’m taking the horse.”

“Don’t take any chances with her, boy,” Fisk warns, voice dangerously low.

Bucky can see Steve glaring from his chair. “You’ll refer to him as Deputy, Mister Mayor.”

For a moment, each man, even the drunk in his cell, is completely silent. Then, once again straightening his posture, Fisk turns halfway to watch Bucky leave. “Remember what I said, Deputy Barnes.”

“Will do, sir,” Bucky replies, taking his hat off its hook and settling it firmly on his head before pulling the door open and stepping out.

From his cell, the drunk giggles once again, hiccups interrupting him every so often. Reaching into the inner pocket of his jacket, he pulls out a flask of what could only be whiskey. He pops it open, lifting it up to the door as if in toast. “Love always finds a way.”

Fisk can only stare at him distastefully, and Steve doesn’t even bother look his way. “Shut the hell up.”

* * *

 

The inn isn’t the nicest place in Timely, its unfortunate location straight across from the saloon attracting the less _appealing_ sort of folk. As Bucky steps in, his eyes scan over the dingy furniture, the scattering of portraits along the walls, the horrifying floral patterns that made the place reminiscent of his grandmother’s home in Indiana.

It _smells_ like his grandmother’s home in Indiana.

His nose inadvertently scrunches before he makes his way to the front desk. The concierge is an elderly man, and as Bucky approaches he gives a big smile. “What can I do for ya today, sir?”

“I’m looking for a woman,” Bucky replies, leaning on the desk. As he’s about to continue, the old man laughs heartily.

“Aren’t we all?”

“That’s not what I meant,” says the deputy flatly, reaching into the pocket of his coat and pulling out the wanted poster. He unfolds it, setting it on top of the counter and sliding it toward the concierge. “You seen this girl?”

The old man’s eyes narrow, and he reaches for a pair of eyeglasses, putting them on and leaning close to the poster to observe it. A moment passes, and then his eyes widen again. “Why, yes. She checked in earlier today.”

“You’re certain?” Bucky asks urgently.

The old man nods, stepping off to the side a bit, towards a fat, overstuffed book of what Bucky can only assume are the inn’s records. He opens it to the first page, pressing his finger to the paper and dragging it down over each word until at last he pauses. “Here. Miss Natalie Rushman. Checked in by herself this morning.”

“Have you seen her leave at all since then?”

“No, no, only people who’ve gone through this lobby since then came from the saloon.”

“What room will I find her in?”

The old man turns back to his book. “204. Up the stairs, to the left.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bucky says, taking the poster back and already moving towards the staircase, folding the paper again. But as he turns, he nearly runs directly into a young man with his head turned down, hat blocking his face. The man jumps back, looking up in surprise for only a second, before turning his head back down.

“Sorry!” the deputy apologizes, but the man’s already kept on moving. Bucky wouldn’t have thought anything of it – but he only makes it up two more stairs before pausing.

He’d only seen the man’s face for a second, but it was enough. He’s seen that face before.

Unfolding the poster, he takes one glance at her picture, before whipping around. The door of the inn is already swinging shut.

"Damn," he mutters to himself, and he quickly steps back down, taking long strides across the lobby to the door, stuffing the poster back into his pocket.

He quickly looks over the street, eyes flicking back and forth until finally they spot her – stepping into the saloon.

Rushing after her, he nearly knocks over a pair of men walking out. He pays them no mind, pushing through them despite their shouts of protest. Inside the saloon is a crowd of people, drinking and smoking and dancing, and Bucky’s already searching every face, trying to spot her.

He recognizes her only by her hat, making her way through the crowd towards the bar. He pushes through after her, trying to be careful not to shove anyone out of his way. It’ll be easier if she doesn’t know he’s following her.

Not yet, at least.

The smell of cigar smoke filling his nose, and the loud, joyful voices of the saloon’s patrons a chaotic babel, he keeps his attention trained on her. The crowd clears up a bit closer to the bar - probably to give some space for the dancers - and he sees her clearly for the first time.

A knife slides out of her sleeve, and he can see her slender fingers curling around the handle.

Time to make himself known.

Taking two large steps, he reaches out and grabs her around the bicep. “’Scuse me –”

She whirls, no longer attempting to hide her face, blue eyes wide in shock.

Bucky reaches for the knife in her hand. “I’m gonna need you to come with me, Miss Rushman.”

For a moment she’s perfectly still in his grip, simply staring at him. For a moment, Bucky can only think that this was _much_ easier than Fisk had made it seem.

The moment passes, and before he can even think to stop her, her fist flies up and connects with a _crack_ to the deputy's nose.


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Black Widow is a dangerous woman, and Deputy Bucky Barnes has tasked himself with tracking her down and bringing her to justice. 
> 
> Unfortunately for the deputy, she'd really rather not. 
> 
> Based on Marvel's 1872, because the ladies of the American West knew how to pack a punch.

That was a damn good punch.

Not that the aftermath is enjoyable, but he can respect her form. It doesn’t stop the crack as his nose breaks under her knuckles, nor does it stop the blood that’s already beginning to spill over his lips. It takes another second for the pain to kick in, and Bucky can feel himself cringing before it really starts to hurt.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on it. In the brief moments when he’s distracted, she wrenches her arm free, swiping at him with her knife. Any of the shock she’d shown before has disappeared, replaced by a cold fury, a murderous determination.

Bucky jumps out of the way in the nick of time – only to bump back into another man.

“Hey!” the man shouts, swinging around. Bucky turns his head soon enough to see his arm flying around and he ducks to avoid it. He can smell whiskey on him, and perhaps another time Bucky might take a swing back, but right now he can’t afford distractions.

Turning back around, Bucky manages to spot the Widow rushing away through the crowd. With a growl, he wipes his bloodied nose with the back of his hand, moving to follow her, only to be stopped by his attacker latching a fist onto the back of his collar.

“Where you think yer goin’, boy?” the drunk demands furiously, spinning Bucky around again and raising an arm to land another blow. Luckily, by now the fighting has caught the attention of most of the saloon’s patrons – and one of them grabs his arm to stop him.

“Hey!” he shouts, and momentarily forgets about Bucky long enough to let him go, turning and lunging on the deputy’s savior. All at once the saloon descends into utter anarchy, with every man either moving to stop the first fight or starting their own, or ducking out of the way in an attempt to save their drinks. The dancers shriek, fleeing to the streets as Bucky runs past them.

“Damn it,” Bucky mutters as the melee escalates and he loses the Widow in the crowd. Ducking under a punch, he rushes for the bar, leaping on top of it so that he stands tall above everyone, shot glasses and bottles of whiskey spilling over at his feet.

Across the saloon, he spots her, easily weaving through the fight and moving quickly. For a brief moment, he catches her glancing back at him, and he pulls his coat back, revealing a pair of shackles meant for her on one hip and his gun on the other. Pulling the weapon from its case, Bucky has no intention of firing into a crowd of innocent people – but she doesn’t need to know that.

The Widow’s eyes land on the gun and widen, and then she breaks into a sprint, shoving people out of the way as she races for the backdoor. Bucky follows suit, running along the length of the bar, kicking and shattering glasses and bottles along the way. But he can’t just jump into a group of people, and as the end of the bar approaches, he eyes the second-story overhang, doing the math in his head.

…He can make it.

It’ll be a _really_ embarrassing story to go back to the jail with if he doesn’t.

Reaching the end, Bucky jumps, stretching his arms out as far as he can. His free hand latches onto the railing, and for a split second he’s hanging there. Using his momentum, he swings himself up, hauling himself over the railing and landing, perhaps not gracefully, but steadily in a crouch.

He gives himself a second to smile in relief, muttering under his breath, “Can’t believe that worked.”

Then he stands, tucks his gun back into his belt, and runs for the doors to the balcony, the people around him making the smart decision and stepping out of his way this time. Pushing the doors open, he rushes through, a cool twilight breeze immediately brushing over his cheeks.

Moving right up against the railing, the sounds of the fighting become muffled behind him as the doors swing closed again, and he stares out into an empty dirt alleyway, eyes narrowing as he searches for her. He hears the doors below him open, the shattering of glass inside the saloon echoing into the alley, and decides it can’t be anyone _else_.

Taking one look down at the ground, he immediately knows this is a terrible idea, and leaps anyway.

It’s an even less graceful landing than the first, and while he _does_ land on his feet, he has to go into a crouch to lessen the severity of the impact and nearly loses his balance as he bounces back up again.

Spinning around, he locks eyes with her, standing there as if she’d just frozen mid-sprint.

“Don’t make this worse than it has to be,” Bucky warns, taking a step closer.

With a snarl, she slips another knife out of her belt, taking a fighting stance. “Step aside and it won’t be.”

Steve’s voice echoes in Bucky’s memory. _She causes trouble, she’ll get what’s comin’ to her._ Flipping his coat back again, the gun is once again in view at his belt

He doesn’t want to do this – but she’s not leaving him with much of a choice, is she?

“Bit of a tip,” he says, reaching for the weapon, “Don’t bring a knife to a gun fight.”

Her blue eyes flash to his weapon, and without warning she whips the knife at him, the blade nicking the back of his hand.

Bucky lets out a shout, bringing his hand away instinctively, and before he has time to react, she’s attacked, lashing out with a powerful right hook he’s barely able to deflect in time, his arm shooting up to parry the blow.

At first, every move Bucky makes is purely defensive – raising his arms to block her punches, ducking and shifting out of the way of her kicks. Her attacks are relentless, and it doesn’t seem like she ever loses any energy, either. It’s admittedly impressive, though Bucky really shouldn’t be wasting his time appreciating the fighting style of someone who could probably very easily kill him and think nothing of it.

“I really didn’t wanna have to do this,” he says, and as she throws another punch, he catches her fist in the palm of his hand. Without warning, he strikes out against her, his knuckles catching her jaw and knocking her backward. “My Dad always told me you should never hit a lady.”

_But Dad’s lessons aren’t gonna come in handy this time._

She stumbles, but only slightly – judging by the way she fights, he’d be surprised if anyone had managed to get a punch in in a while. Her hat falls off of her head, landing gently in the dirt near the backdoor of the saloon, revealing a shock of red hair in what was probably once a nicely done bun.

In retrospect, he shouldn’t have given her the moment to catch herself – because in that moment she’s crouched down and pulled another knife from her boot. _How many weapons does she have?_ Before he can even so much as reach for his gun, she’s lunged forward again, aiming for anywhere she can get. He blocks her with his forearms, the tip of the blade getting within inches of his face before he finally manages to knock it out of her hands. It clatters to the ground, skidding across the dirt and away from them.

Temporarily distracted by the loss of her weapon, the Widow doesn’t move in time to block a hard punch to the gut. She gasps, the blow quite literally knocking the air out of her lungs, and stumbles backwards, partially doubled over.

For a moment it seems like Bucky might’ve won, but then she looks up at him with her eyes narrowed into an enraged glare, and the moment she’s caught her breath she’s running at him.

Bucky takes a stance to defend himself – but what she does to him, there’s really no defending himself from.

Taking a running start, the Widow leaps into the air in front of him, catching his head between her legs. He hardly has time to react before she twists her hips, using the momentum from her jump to flip him over. With a thud, he lands hard on his ass, momentarily disoriented as the dirt clouds up around him. In those brief seconds, he can’t help but think, _Wow._ There’s the smallest of disbelieving smirks at his lips, and he lets out an impressed huff.

 _What a woman_.

Remembering himself, he shifts onto his side, propped up on one hand, about to push himself back to his feet – but she’s right there, apparently having landed easily on her feet. He takes his opportunity and swings himself around, swiping his feet at her legs in an attempt to kick them out from underneath her.

She jumps back to avoid him, giving him the time to get back to his feet, rolling onto his back and swinging his legs up to flip himself upright. Once he’s standing tall again, she snarls, making a move to attack – but before she can step out of the way, the door of the saloon swings open and a middle-aged man falls out, landing on her and completely knocking her over.

“Agh!” she shouts as she hits the ground under his weight. The scent of alcohol is so strong that Bucky can catch it from where he stands, and he breathes a sigh of relief that it seems, _finally_ , like this fight is over. His hand finds the gun at his hip, taking it from its case as he steps closer.  

“M’ deepest ‘pologies, ma’am,” the drunk slurs, and with a look of disgust the Widow shoves him off of her, making an attempt to scramble to her feet.

She’s only made it to her knees before she hears the gun click and freezes.

Bucky’s got the barrel settled against the back of her head, finger on the trigger, ready to pull at any moment. He doesn’t plan to – and he doesn’t want to, either – but the fight needs to stop before one of them _does_ end up dead.

“Hands up. Where I can see ‘em.” He lifts his free hand to the bridge of his nose, snapping it back into place, letting the _pop_ punctuate his orders. “And don’t you try any tricks on me.”

Slowly, she raises her arms up above her head, and Bucky reaches for the shackles at his belt. Making no attempts to be gentle, he pulls one of her arms down behind her back, closing one cuff around her wrist, and then does the same with the other.

“Thanks for your help, sir,” Bucky says, pulling the gun away and tucking it back into his belt. He curls his fist into the back of the Widow’s shirt, yanking her roughly to her feet. “You’ve assisted in the arrest of a dangerous outlaw.”

The man burps, reaching for the Widow’s fallen hat. “Just doin’ my duty, Mister,” he says in a humble drawl, and with a satisfied grin he sets the hat atop his balding head and promptly falls asleep in the dirt.

* * *

 

It’s nearly dark. They’ll be expecting her report soon.

This is bad. _Very_ bad.

Natasha’s fingers twitch anxiously behind her back as she’s led through the alley. Blue eyes flick to the side, glancing at the shining star pin on this man’s coat. He’s an officer of some sort – but how did he know about her?

A part of her wants to believe he was just in the right place at the right time, but she knows that’s not the case. They’d nearly collided on the stairs at the inn. He _followed_ her. He _knew_ who she was.

No one knows who she is.

_How the hell did he?_

His grip is strong and tight on her arm, leaving no chance for her to make any sort of an escape. She can’t stop staring around them, waiting for a sniper to appear on one of the rooftops, or a gunman to jump around the corner.

She failed at her mission. They’ll come for her.

But – she can still finish it – she just has to get away…

The deputy leads her to the corral, finally letting go of her arm to untie his horse. This could be her chance – she knows what she would have to do, the various methods of breaking out of shackles is taught to all the girls like her at a young age. She’s already begun to process, joining her hands together behind her back, rubbing one thumb over the knuckle of the other, preparing herself for the pain –

“This here’s Winnie*,” her captor says, patting the horse’s neck affectionately. “Now, usually, I wouldn’t do this, but since I am a _gentleman_ , I’m gonna let you choose if you wanna ride her with me, or if you wanna walk.” He smiles brightly, with false sweetness. “Your choice, Miss Rushman.”

Natasha glares at him, about to answer, when a shot fires.

Both she and her captor immediately react, ducking down out of instinct, while the horse begins to shuffle around, making anxious noises. It takes Natasha a moment to remember to breathe.

She knew they would come.

“Shit,” she hears him mutter, and when she looks over he’s already gotten out his gun. “Wait here.”

As she watches him, he jumps out from behind the horse, aiming his gun and firing, all in one fluid motion. Peaking around, she sees their attacker collapse in a heap. Blue eyes widen in surprise – but before she can completely process it, she feels him grab her by the arm.

“Upsy daisy,” he says, not giving her a chance to protest before he lifts her up onto the horse, heaving himself up behind her. It’s not comfortable fitting two people in the one saddle, and he’s _much_ too close to her right now, but as long as they’re under attack she’s not going to argue. “Hold on.”

“To _what_?” Natasha retorts, looking halfway over her shoulder at him and wiggling her fingers behind her back.

His brow furrows. “Touché.”

There’s a shout behind them, and Natasha and her captor turn simultaneously to see a pair of men huddling around the fallen shooter. She doesn’t need to see their faces to know who they are.

“Go,” she says urgently, “ _Go_.”

His arms reach around her, taking the reins in his hands. “Hyah!”

The horse whinnies and bursts into a gallop out of the corral, kicking up dirt clouds as they race away.

Another shot rings through the night and Natasha cringes, bracing herself for the possibility of being hit. He pulls one of his arms away from the reins, and she can feel his body turning slightly as he aims his gun and shoots.

But the ride is too shaky. He’ll have a hard time hitting _anything_ one-handed.

Wasting no time, she presses her thumb against the knuckle until she feels a painful _pop_. Natasha bites down on her lip, forcing herself to ignore the pain as she slips her wrist out of the cuff and pops her thumb back into place again.

“Give me the reins,” she says, not waiting for his reply and wrenching them out of his hand. Behind her, she can feel him pause, as if confused, but he says nothing of it. More shots are fired, and Natasha can tell it’s making the horse nervous, but she urges her to go faster regardless. They _need_ to get out of here. It’s not optional.

“I think that’s the last of ‘em,” she hears him say, feeling him turn back around. “Where do you think you’re takin’ us?”

“We can’t stay here,” she replies, keeping her eyes fixed on the road ahead. She has no idea where to take them. She has no goddamn clue – but they can’t stay in town.

“Maybe you forgot, but you’re goin’ to _jail_ ,” he snaps, reaching to take back the reins. She responds by shoving her elbow back into his ribcage. “Agh!”

“ _We can’t stay here_ ,” she insists, voice shaking just the slightest with desperate urgency. “They’ll expect you to take me to the jail. If they find me there, they’ll kill _everyone_ in sight. We can’t go there.”

“Who is ‘ _they_ ’? Who are you running from?”

Natasha chooses not to answer.

He tries to take the reins again, but she jabs her elbow back to stop him, like before. “ _We can’t go there_.”

“Well, where the _hell_ are you plannin’ to go?”

“I don’t…” she replies, blue eyes wild, “I don’t know. Somewhere out of town – we just can’t be here –”

Natasha hears him make a noise of frustration, and after a moment he says, “I might know a safe place. But you have to give me the reins.”

She hesitates, her grip tightening on them defensively. “You can’t take me to the jail or everyone will die.”

“Yeah, I got that,” he insists, reaching his hands around again. “This ain’t a trick. Give me the reins.”

Reluctantly, she gives in, letting him take them and instead settling her hands down, fingers curling around the horn of the saddle. He has the horse turn a corner, and within moments they’re leaving the town behind them, riding into the dark with only the light of the moon to lead their way.

She can only pray he knows what he’s doing.

* * *

 

For about ten minutes, they ride in silence farther away from town, letting the distance grow until Timely is just a glowing light in the distance. Eventually, he sees what he’s been looking for – a shape in the dark, steadily becoming bigger. It’s only once they’ve arrived that it’s identifiable as a single tree atop a little grassy hill. They’re close to the dam, but not close enough to cause any suspicion, and not far enough where the grass becomes the sand and dirt of the desert. The ideal spot.

…But apparently, not to her.

Pulling on the reins to stop the horse, he swings his leg around awkwardly to step off and turns to assist her on her way down – but she’s already done the same, jumping off of the saddle with an incredulous look.

“This is your idea of a safe place?” she demands, “It’s an _open field_.”

“Yes, it is,” Bucky replies flatly, “You’ll see anyone coming from a mile away.”

“Idiot,” she mutters to herself, turning away from him. “Unbelievable.”

The deputy frowns, crossing his arms. “If you don’t like it, I can take you back into town right now.”

She freezes, remaining silent.

“That’s what I thought,” Bucky says, taking a step closer to her. “You made me bring you out here, expectin’ me to trust you. As if I could _actually_ trust you –”

She whirls around. “I didn’t _make_ you do anything.”

“You didn’t really leave me much of a _choice_.”

“You could’ve thrown me off the horse if it bothered you so much.”

“Well, I guess you could say I’m just a _nice guy_ ,” he replies, sarcasm dripping off every word.

She glares at him. “Why’d you bring me out here, huh? If you don’t trust me, why’d you listen to me?”

“Oh, I don’t trust you. I wanna make that clear.” Reaching out, he takes the empty cuff, which had been hanging down off of her other wrist since she’d freed her hand, and holds it up between them. “This isn’t workin’ in your favor, by the way.”

She wrenches her hand away, and the cuff falls, dangling off of her wrist. It’s obviously weighing on her shoulder, but she doesn’t seem to be paying it any attention – or, at least, she doesn’t let it show. “So why?”

“Because, believe it or not, I’m a reasonable person. You said bringin’ you back to the jail could cause a massacre, so I didn’t bring you back to the jail. You’re welcome,” Bucky says, placing his hands on his hips. “But if you want me to trust you, I need some answers and I need them now.”

Her jaw clenches, hands curling into tight fists at her sides, and she bites on her bottom lip for a moment before answering. “I’m listening.”

“Who were those people?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why are they after you?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Exasperated, Bucky rolls his eyes. “Are they some sort of police? Bounty hunters?”

“Neither,” she replies, keeping her gaze fixed fully on him.

He wipes a hand over his face, muttering under his breath about _women_ and _secrets_ and _goddamn pain in my ass_. “Can you at least tell me your name? Your real one. I think we both know _Natalie Rushman_ ain’t it.”

She wets her lip uncertainly. “It’s… Natasha. Natasha Romanoff.”

Looking at her, he takes a deep breath, forcing his frustration to subside. “Deputy Bucky Barnes.” He motions towards the shackles hanging off of her wrist. “Want me to take that off for you, Miss Romanoff?”

Hesitating, she nods in silence and slowly holds her wrist out.

Stepping forward, he closes his hand around her wrist – and then pauses. “I need you to listen to me and listen well, you got that?”

He doesn’t wait for her to respond.

“I’ve got a friend who lives outside of town. None of these people you’re so afraid of will suspect it. I can take you there. But if I don’t get an explanation by noon tomorrow, I’m takin’ you back into town, back to the jail, where you’re gonna see justice done. Understand?”

Natasha sets her jaw stubbornly, but eventually nods.

“Good,” Bucky says, voice a little softer, and he loosens his grip on her wrist, reaching into one of the pouches on his belt to remove the key for the shackles. Unlocking the cuff, he releases her wrist and settles the shackles back on his hip.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her rubbing gently at her sore wrist. “…Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Bucky says, turning back around and whistling for his horse. She comes trotting back to him, and when she’s close enough he reaches for the reins, gently petting her snout. “Hop on.”

Natasha waits a moment, looking at the horse and gently stroking her thick mane, before pulling herself up into the saddle again. Bucky doesn’t let go of the reins as he walks back around and hauls himself up behind her once more.

“Oh, and one more thing.” He takes off his hat, settling it on top of her head. Her shoulders hunch instinctively, but then she turns halfway to raise a questioning eyebrow at him, and he shrugs. “Your hair is a mess.”

With that, he reaches around with his other hand to grab the reins, and then they’re off, once again galloping through the desert, the cool wind a welcome relief from the heat, but it doesn’t release the tension in his shoulders. From where he’s sitting, he can tell that she’s tense, too.

It’s gonna be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This is both a reference to Bucky's mother, Winifred C. Barnes, and a really awful horse pun.


End file.
